If I slit your throat on the peak of our relationship’s winter
The cut would unleash flocks of swans and swallows
My hands around your neck instead, stained by drops of void
Would manage to make scars out of nothingness.

Desperate, I might keep cutting through – inventive surgeon,
Seeking the source from where your rivers flood.
If your skin turned into mirror you would reflect
All the barren fields I hold inside

And if I tried to breath out a summer you would still be
A country cold and without heating, whose winters
Unfold slowly as petals and whose paths interweave
With lost rays of sunshine gone chilly.

You bared the trees yourself, one by one,
Suckling out each drop of chlorophyll from branches sharp and sick.
Poisoned the root and soil. Left the ground unspoken. Undertook
A silent treatment.

Beaks and shrieks, wanting to come out, peck hard
The back of your eyes. Beneath your capillary carpets
Lies the fear to let go, your sleep unwise
Creates new monsters with each and every snore.

I can distinctly see my voice disfiguring your face
With an axe of sound – and yet the lake of your eye, firm and clear,
Doesn’t fade out in circles. Deaf to the echoes, split into halves
Your skull doesn’t speak up.

If I cut your throat once more, the void dropping out, kissing my hands
Would never leave me. If I, armed as a knight, uncovered
Your wake and finally found you
You might never be lonely again.